


A Party at Mr. Wilde's

by Culumacilinte



Category: Historical RPF, Monty Python RPF
Genre: 19th Century, Aesthetes, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-01
Updated: 2007-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1890’s London, John Cleese attends a party hosted by the celebrated dramatist and poet, Oscar Wilde. While there, Oscar introduces him to a stranger, a young lord by the name of Graham Chapman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Party at Mr. Wilde's

‘Ah, Mr. Cleese!’

 

A voice rang out across the room as John entered, looking a bit apprehensive.  The elegant drawing room was stuffed fair to bursting, with gentlemen of class mingling with young bohemian types- all of them extremely handsome, John noted with something between disapproval and amusement- all amidst the smoke of cigarette and pipe and even a hookah, sitting in the corner.

 

And there was Oscar Wilde, easily wending his way through the crowd, dispensing greetings here and there, smiling that enigmatic smirk of his.  When he reached John, he seized his hand and smiled, inclining his head ever so slightly, ironically.  “John; how wonderful to see you.”

 

‘Mr. Wilde; a pleasure, as always.’

 

Oscar looked much as he always did; dark, glossy hair framing his face, crooked nose presiding over an amused smirk, smouldering cigarette held delicately in one hand.  His manner of dress too, was as opulent as John remembered; fine black breeches and matching stockings, with patent-leather shoes polished to a mirror-sheen.  His tailed smoking jacket was fine velvet of the deepest violet colour, and edged with black silk piping.  Beneath that, a black brocade waistcoat and crisp white shirt, tied at the neck with a purple silk cloth, patterned with silver fleurs-de-lis.

 

He smirked at John.  'My dear man, it is one thing to say that to my face, quite another to say it when you do not know I am listening.  And I shan’t remind you again that it’s “Oscar,” for I know that you shall never listen.’

 

The corner of John’s thin lips curled upward ever so slightly, ‘Indeed.’

 

‘But, come!’ Oscar cried, ‘I’ve someone I must introduce you to.  Oh, and John, dear?’ He stopped and turned back to John, who had begun to follow him. ‘Do take off the hat, pray.  On someone of your ludicrous height, the top hat ceases to be fashionable and becomes merely obscene.’

 

John’s eyes flicked up as though he could somehow see himself in the hat, but he flushed, and hastily removed it.

 

Oscar led him through the groups of people standing about and talking animatedly until they reached a couch where there lounged two men.  One of them was certainly one of Oscar’s boys, for his youthful beauty and flirtatious smile, but it was not he that Oscar had taken John to see, seemingly.  Oscar made a noise of quite amusement, and immediately the two looked up, recognition registering on their faces.  The other man leaned in to whisper something in the boy’s ear, and he grinned and got up, winking saucily at Oscar and John, and then heading off.  The other man looked after him fondly for a moment before getting up himself, brushing imaginary dust off his trousers.

 

‘Oscar!’ He exclaimed, smiling brightly, ‘you have enchanting friends, you know.  And you’ve a guest!’  He eyed John with some interest, ‘you must introduce us.’

 

Oscar smiled, ‘This,’ he nodded at John, ‘is Mr. John Cleese.  John, this is Lord Graham Chapman.’

 

At first glance, this Lord Chapman seemed to be cut from the same mould as Oscar himself; same crooked nose, same smirk, same air of lazy self-assurance.  Tall, just a few inches shorter than John, his hair- almost as long as Oscar’s- was of a tawny golden colour, his eyes blue as chips of sea-glass.  His body seemed to be built of planes and angles, as neither John’s nor Oscar’s was, rangy and lean. His suit, a rather more conventional jacket, trousers, and waistcoat, was of a handsome mid-range blue-grey, but his bowtie was bright, shimmering gold, as if daring someone to comment.  He smiled warmly, and held out a hand for John to shake.

 

‘Mr. Cleese.’

 

But to John’s eternal surprise, as he took the other man’s hand, he found himself shaking his head and saying ‘John, please.’

 

Lord Chapman grinned, ‘Very well, but if I’m to call you John, then you must call me Graham, or Gray, if you will.’

 

‘Graham, then.’

 

‘Lovely.’ Graham smiled slightly, ‘Shall we sit?  I’m sure our fine host can find someone else to amuse himself with.’  The grin he gave Oscar at that was more a leer than anything else, and Oscar raised one eyebrow minutely.  

 

‘You know me far too well, my friend.  Gentlemen,’ he nodded to both John and Graham, ‘I am afraid I must away, but doubtless I shall see you both again sooner than not.’

 

He left, and together the two of them sat, Graham tucking a long leg up under himself.  John regarded him for a moment, and then spoke. ‘So, Lord Graham.’

 

‘Oh, please!’ Graham sneered.  ‘I did ask you to drop the “Lord.”  It’s an inherited title, anyway, and I’ve done nothing with it save to waste all the wealth my father so feverishly amassed on renters and going to see plays and suchlike.  Not that my father knows about the renters, of course,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘But he considers the theatre to be a waste of time- frivolous, he says.’

 

John blinked, momentarily taken aback, but soon collected himself.  ‘Are you… involved in the theatre, then?’

 

‘Oh, if you can call it that,’ said Graham negligently, waving a hand, ‘I’ve been in a few things- bit parts, really- and I’ve tried my hand at writing, but it’s all silly, humorous stuff.  Nothing of the magnitude dear Oscar seems to produce.’

 

‘Well,’ John grinned ruefully, ‘we can’t all be Oscar Wilde, can we?  Indeed, I daresay we wouldn’t wish to be, had we the choice.’

 

Graham let out a chuff of laughter, acquiescing, ‘Yes, you’re probably right, at that.  Genius is rather more of a labour than those unburdened with it might guess, I imagine.’

 

‘Quite,’ John agreed, ‘Speaking thusly- how is it you know Mr. Wilde?’

 

‘Ah, yes.’ Graham coughed slightly, a pink stain blooming on his fine cheekbones, ‘We’ve a mutual acquaintance, you might say.’

 

An eyebrow raised, ‘Might I say?’

 

Graham laughed, ‘Cheeky!  I can see why Oscar likes you.  But, um, you’ve met Charlie Parker?  He’s the lad over there in the grey suit and hat, you see…’

 

John squinted through the crowd, searching for the man Graham had indicated.  Ah, there he was- a slim young man, pretty as a girl, hanging off Oscar’s arm and laughing uproariously along with the rest of the crowd clustered around them.  His brow furrowed in thought.  ‘He’s… a gentleman’s valet, is he not?’

 

‘He’s a rent boy, if that’s what you mean.’

 

John cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Indeed,’ he muttered, and his voice was clipped.  ‘And you and Mr. Wilde are both… clients of his?’

 

Again Graham smirked wryly, ‘We needn’t talk about this if it makes you so awkward, you know, but yes, we are.’

 

Normally, John would have leapt at the chance to abandon the topic they had somehow stumbled on, but he found in himself a strange curiosity, and he shook his head.  ‘Oh, no, it’s fine.  I wouldn’t be asking if I weren’t comfortable with it.’

 

‘I’m sure,’ Graham suppressed a smirk, and reached into his pocket, fishing out a polished wooden pipe and a snuff box.  As he packed the bowl of the pipe with the tobacco, John looked over at Oscar and the rent boy- Charlie- both of whom still appeared to be talking and laughing.  There was the sharp scratch and sulphurous smell of a match being lit from behind him, and he turned to see Graham shaking out the match and inhaling deeply on his pipe.  He sighed leisurely as he blew out a stream of silvery-blue smoke before transferring his gaze to John.  ‘You’re staring at them,’ he said, his voice amused, ‘what’re you thinking?’

 

‘You and Oscar…’ John started slowly, looking carefully at Graham, ‘were you also… acquainted?’

 

A rueful smile flickered around Graham’s mouth at that, and he looked back at Oscar.  ‘We were,’ he murmured, ‘but only for a short while.  He left me, just like he left Robbie and John and every other poor bastard he’s ever taken up with.  For Bosie.  Dear Lord Alfred Douglas, with his face like a Botticelli angel and temper like a devil.’

 

John’s silver-brown eyes bored into Graham’s blue ones, as if trying to divine some truth there.  ‘You loved him,’ he said.  It was not a question, and Graham let out a short exhalation which just might have been regretful laughter.

 

‘I did,’ he nodded, ‘as did we all.  He tends to have that effect on people, does Oscar.’  He looked swiftly up then, and it seemed that whatever black mood had seized upon him suddenly departed, and his smile dazzled as he grinned at John. ‘But it’s the better for me, after all; I’m not well-suited to the monogamous lifestyle.’

 

Together they laughed, but John could not help his sudden awareness of how close they seemed to have become; the leg which the other man had formerly had tucked under his other leg had, at some point, unfolded and was now pressed warm against his own.  The foot belonging to said leg was clad only in a black sock, having apparently lost its shoe at some point, and Graham’s toes skated along the lines of the leg just above John’s knee.  He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to ignore the sensation.

‘I tend to lean more towards the monogamous myself,’ he tried, but there was a strain in his voice which had not been present before, and Graham smirked, cocking an eyebrow.

‘Such a pity; I find monogamy to be terrifically boring.  One needs variety in one’s life, or else one is apt to become just like one's parents, for that is the only destination monogamy can possibly lead to.’

John’s cheeks were burning by now, and he knew his flush must be obvious, but he drew in a surreptitious breath, collecting himself; he must not allow his discomfiture to show.  ‘Convenient then,’ he said, his mouth moving far ahead of his brain, ‘that I am currently without anyone with whom to share my monogamy.’ 

Graham’s eyes lit, and his look turned predatory, ‘Indeed,’ he murmured, ‘you are the soul of expediency, Mr. Cleese.’

‘John, please.’

‘John.’

John drew in another breath as Graham across from him exhaled a lazy smoke ring, staring intently at him, his air almost that of a lion eyeing its quivering prey; dark-eyed, languid and hungry.  Suddenly feeling intensely uncomfortable with this situation, he spoke up.  ‘I am not well-versed in the matters of Greek love, Lord Ch- Graham.  It was never my intention to, ah, imply any interest on my part in such activities. You must forgive me if I have spoken out of turn.’

Graham raised an eyebrow.  ‘Would it offend if I said you were an abysmal liar?’

A half-hearted laugh then, from John, and he shook his head.  ‘Not in the slightest.  No point getting offended about something I’m already quite aware of, is there?’

‘Not as I see it, no.’

A hand then, discarding Graham’s pipe with its still-smouldering tobacco on a side table, and John half-wondered if it would scorch the lacquer, but then his thought was violently pulled away from the well-being of Oscar Wilde’s furniture by the long, golden fingers which were suddenly laid against his trouser leg just above the ankle with impudent and quite uncalled-for familiarity.  Neatly trimmed nails made a barely audible _zhhh_ against the fabric of his trousers as Graham’s hand travelled higher, higher, until it was far past obscene, and John had to exercise extreme self-control to calm his breathing, which had sped up rather alarmingly.

‘No.’ John’s voice was sudden and harsh as he spoke, and his hand flashed down to seize on Graham’s, stopping it just above his knee and pinning it there.  He hardly liked to think where it might have continued had he not.

Graham looked up at him, eyes narrowed, searching, and then there was a long silence, wherein the two men simply gazed at each other, looking for some sign in the other’s eyes.  After a long while, though, Graham finally nodded, and his hand slid back down John’s leg and into his own lap once again.  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘My apologies, John.  I overstepped my bounds there.’

John nodded warily, ‘Yes, yes you did.’

‘But you enjoyed it, did you not?’

John’s lips tightened, and Graham smiled ever so slightly.  ‘You needn’t answer, you know.’ 

The nod John gave him was thankful now, and giving Graham one last look, he stood, unconsciously adjusting his trouser leg where Graham’s fingers had been.  ‘I am loath to cut off our conversation at this point, but I’m afraid I must be off.’

Graham got up as well, sliding his feet into his shoes, which had been sitting at the foot of the couch.  ‘It was excellent to have met you, John.’

‘And you,’ John’s smile was genuine as he looked at Graham, ‘Perhaps we can meet again in future.’

‘Quite, and in a more private setting,’ Graham suggested, cocking an eyebrow wickedly, but soon subsided at the look John was casting his way.  ‘Or then again, perhaps not.  We shall see.’

‘Indeed we shall.’  John held out a hand, and Graham took it firmly in his own, squeezing comfortably, ‘Indeed we shall.’

When Graham left late in the evening, after the parlour had mostly emptied out, Oscar took his hand in both of his and asked him how he had got on with John.  ‘Quite well, I think,’ Graham said with a smile, ‘though methinks he’ll require some getting used to me, as it were.  I’m meeting him this Thursday to go and see a play.’

‘Excellent, dear boy!’ Oscar exclaimed expansively, laying a kiss on first Graham’s right cheek, then the left, and ushering him out.  He stayed lounging in the doorway for quite some time afterward, watching Graham’s retreating form in the gaslit London night.  ‘Excellent,’ he murmured again, and turned to retire for the night.


End file.
